


love me till life ends (or death and time itself)

by itsagamefortwo



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A Discovery of Witches AU, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mild Language, References to Depression, Some magic, and now it's going a totally different direction, being human AU, kinda. like. vaugley the samee sorta plot i guess, no beta we die like men and dont reread, some werewolves, there's some vampires, this started out as a Being Human AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsagamefortwo/pseuds/itsagamefortwo
Summary: Eliot Waugh had been twenty-five and drinking his way through lower Manhattan in the (19)30’s when a tall dark and handsome stranger had stepped out of the shadows with the promise of a lifetime for fun and led him by the suspenders into the world of eternal night.Or sort of.–She asks what he remembers about his grad school interview and he tells her. There’s a pause before he, hesitantly, slowly and carefully, tells her about his other memories of the day. In turn Julia shows him the sparks she can make from the ends of her fingers and he stares at her in wonder.Magic, it turns out, is very much real and Quentin in moderately good at it.Or: eliot is a vampire, quentin is a hedge witch. eliot and margo find a book that might just hold the answers to a question they'd never thought to ask and quentin might just be able to help. (its a weird vampire au ok)





	1. prologue

> Vampires and magicians are sworn enemies. No one really knew when the feud had started or why or how or who. They just knew they didn’t get along. Each side had their own version of the story, of course, had their own myths and legends about the age old rivalry that contradict each other in every way except for one thing. Every newly born vampire and newly information magician knew in their very blood that they were immortal/mortal enemies. 

 

Eliot Waugh had been twenty-five and drinking his way through lower Manhattan in the (19)30’s when a tall dark and handsome stranger had stepped out of the shadows with the promise of a lifetime for fun and led him by the suspenders into the world of eternal night. 

 

Or sort of. 

 

Because it turned out the whole, burning in the sunlight thing? A total myth. He had woken up the next morning on a strangers couch, with a pounding head, a dry throat and his left arm basking in the morning sun. Flashes of the night before floated through his head, there had been more drinking, dancing, loud music. And then lips on his neck, his shoulder, his wrist, his chest. Teeth sinking into his flesh. And Eliot remembers feeling momentarily shocked, a bite – pun fully intended – of pain, and then. Bliss. A high that no drug or alcohol had ever given him before. 

 

And then nothing. Until the sun had woken him up and he’d been so.  **_Hungry_ ** . It had taken him a while to place just what he was hungry for, but once the word  _ blood _ had floated through his mind it was all he could think of. Which was the moment Margo Hanson had entered his life. 

 

Margo hadn’t been the one too bite him, but she had been there when it happened. Which apparently meant she was now tasked with showing him the ropes of vampire life. A task she took great joy in, leading him around the city that Eliot was now seeing with new eyes, he had thought he knew the dark side of New York but Margo was showing him a whole new world. It was the same place he had been living for the past three years, of course, but it was also something more, it was as if he had been walking around with one eye closed and now he could see everything. All the dark ugly truths hidden between the bright spots. 

 

As he got acquainted with the world, with his body and its newfound abilities, Margo told him her story. Of a young girl who had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd during the wrong time and the rest, she said, was history. (As the years past by, Margo would tell him more about her past and Eliot would do the same in turn, but in those first few years they kept their deep truths close to their un-beating hearts.)

 

For the first decade, Eliot and Margo drank their way across the states, finding the underbelly of every city they entered and leaving their mark every time they left. Together they perfected their reputation as the people who knew how to throw a party, even people outside of the small vampire community quickly learned that they were the people you went too if you wanted to have some fun. 

War came. And Eliot, with his fine suits and taste for expensive wine, was drafted and sent overseas. He never told Margo about what he saw, what he had to do. Margo stayed, chose to help the soldiers that came home injured. She never told Eliot about the people she met, the emotions she felt. It was a time neither of them diend to talk about or acknowledge in any verbal way. But they held each other in the dark of the night when memories creeped in, and passed the bottle when they needed to forget. 

 

They spend the next five decades partying and drinking and  _ living  _ in a way that only two vampires with very little self preservation know how. 

 

And in between drinks secrets are shared. Pieces of their souls slowly given away to the other to hold and protect. 

 

Life is long if you’re immortal and both of them longed to be known. 

 

Eliot falls in love with a human for the first (and only, he closes his heart down, locks his emotions away in the back of his chest and refuses to reach for them for no one but Margo) time in 1989. His name is Mike, and he’s kind and honest and cute and  _ loved  _ him back. And Margo tells him, tells him and tells him how bad of an idea it is to tell a human the truth. But Eliot, somewhere buried down in his dead heart and hidden conscious, just longs to be known and loved for who he is, despite knowing his truth that he doesn’t deserve it, tells Mike the truth. Shows him the pointed fangs that stay hidden until he’s hungry, shows him the strength he has grown so good at down playing. 

 

And Mike, kind, honest Mike. He blanches, calls Eliot immoral, a creature from the depths of hell, and runs away. 

 

They spend the crossover into a new millennia on a balcony in Paris overlooking the Seine as fireworks lit up the sky and people cheered around them. Eliot had one arm draped over Margo’s shoulders as one of hers wrapped around his waist, glasses of champagne in each spare hand, Eliot rests his chin on the top of her head, pressing his lips into her familiar dark hair with a smile and whispered promises.

 

They come to an unvoiced agreements to stay in Europe for a while. 

 

They drink new wines. Try new foods. Make new friends. 

 

(they’re wandering. aimless through the world. trying to find a reason for being. but they don’t say the words out loud.)

 

It’s spring in 2005 and they’re in Rome, eyes glancing at every cross they see and grinning devilishly at each other with every other myth they contradict. A storm rolls through the city and they take refuge in a library, all high ceilings and rolling ladders to reach the top shelves. Margo and Eliot might have concocted their reputation as the Queen and King of parties, but life is long and sometimes even party royalty needs to relax with some light reading. 

 

Margo pulls a heavy tomb from a shelf that takes her interest (she can’t tell you  _ why  _ it calls out to her, can’t explain how it seems to whisper her name straight into her head) and holds it in both hands with a frown. It’s old, dark leather wrapped around cream parchment that she knows if she touched would feel rough in the way paper hadn’t in years. 

 

Eliot’s sat at a table, leafing through a second edition of a book of fairy tales when Margo dumps her find in front of him, almost smashing his fingers under it’s heavy weight. He raises his eyes at hers, eyebrow quirking in silent question. 

 

“Read that.” 

 

Is all she says, all she’s clearly going to say so Eliot lowers his eyes back to the book that had interpreted his own reading with vague curiosity. The writing is hard to make out at first, clearly handwritten with a quill and ink, someone had taken great care to not make any mistakes. Eliot didn’t think he would have that kind of patience. 

 

As he reads, Eliot can feel his brow furrowing, leaning closer to the page and re-reading lines. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Is all he can say. Blinks at the page, wondering if maybe this is some late acting holluciation from some drugs he took the night before. But no, the book is still there. The words still on the page. He looks at Margo, she looks at him. 

 

“Well.”

 

They aren’t the type to be at a loss for words. They have something to say about everything, a reply to everyone, for every situation. 

 

“There’s a page missing.”

 

Margo says sitting down next to him, finally moving as if she has just remembered she can. And Eliot looks at the book, carefully lifts the page and sees she is right. There is a page missing. The page with the information they need, he supposes. Eliot has seen enough films and read enough books to know the missing page always has the important information. 

 

“I suppose we have to find it then.”

 

He means to ask it, but it comes out more like a statement. Eliot looks at Margo, turning his body in his seat. Is this what they want? What they’ve been looking for without realising? It’s a silent question, asked between the two of them with only eye contact in a way that people who have known each other for decades can do. 

 

“I suppose we do.”

 

She agrees. And Eliot breaths out, feeling a sense of relief. He hadn’t realised he’d been worried they weren’t on the same page, he hadn’t realised until this moment that this was something he wanted. 

 

A chance to become human again. The answer hidden on a page somewhere out in the world. 

 

°º˚☆

 

Quentin Coldwater was twelve years old when he first refused to leave his bed, refused to go to school. When he simply spent his days staring at the ceiling of his little bedroom, sleeping for too long and causing his parents to worry. On his third day in bed Ted Coldwater had come into his room with a book and he read three chapters out loud before having to go make dinner. Quentin didn’t leave his bed for another two days, but he did finish reading that first book. And the second. And the third. 

 

When he went back to school next week (after having ‘recovered’ from a very bad bout of the flu) the first thing he did was show the books to his best friend Julia Wicker, told her she could borrow his copies because she just  **had** to read them. 

 

He was fourteen years old when he was first admitted to hospital and officially diagnosed with clinical depression. For one tiny moment it felt nice to know there was a reason he was like this, that there was an  _ explanation  _ for why his brain seemed to break. 

 

Julia came to visit him every day he was in the hospital, bringing him his homework and cafeteria gossip and theories about how the flying forrest works. He can’t quite put into words how much it means to him that she’s there but Quentin is pretty sure that she knows when she simply smiles at him, patting his hand when his stuttering sentence leads nowhere. 

 

If Quentin thinks about it, he’s pretty sure his crush on Julia stemmed from the simple fact that she was his only friend. And that she seemed always stand by his side no matter how weird or awkward he got, always pulling him into conversations when others would overlook him but always ready to pull him out when it inevitably got too much. 

 

And along comes James, and the worst part if that Quentin can’t even  _ hate  _ him. Because James is nice and kind and includes Quentin in conversations just as easily as Julia does, and makes a point of saying that they’re friends. Even Quentin, even his lacking stilted social skills and etiquette can see that Julia-and-James go together better than Julia-and-Quentin ever would. 

 

He ends up in hospital another two times before he even turns eighteen. 

 

Despite his issues with talking to people and sometimes missing days of school because it’s all just too  _ much  _ Quentin is smart. He knows he’s smart, and he doesn’t think it’s bragging to admit it, it’s just a fact. He’s pretty sure the proof of that comes from the fact that when Julia isn’t around people are more than happy to bully him into doing their homework or even steal his money (he really wishes they were a little more creative, but he only ever tells Julia that who promptly rolls her eyes at him but there’s a smile tugging at her lips too).

 

Magic, Quentin finds, is something he is good at. It starts with simple coin tricks. Making them vanish behind ears and reappear in pockets, twisting over fingers and flipping in the air. He moves onto card tricks when he runs out of youtube tutorials on coin tricks to watch and finds that palming a coin, idly moving it over forefinger-middlefinger-ringfinger-littlefinger-and-back soothes some of the anxiety that’s constantly rolling in his stomach. 

 

Quentin graduates high school (a fact his dad had once worried about, but thinks Quentin doesn’t know) with Julia and James and he’s  _ happy _ . He’s  _ excited  _ about what comes next in his life. He’s ready for this big wide world. And he’s terrified too. But he got into Columbia, and Julia and James did too and they’ve already agreed to share an apartment in their second year. 

 

There’s blips in the next three years, such low points that he scares himself, but he doesn’t end up back in hospital. 

 

He goes home for Christmas break in his third year, curls up on his single bed in his childhood bedroom with his favorite Fillory book and loses himself in the pages. Even at his lowest points Quentin has always known that the world of Fillory was were he could retreat, regroup. It’s the place where he whispers his fears and hopes and dreams, trapping them between the pages and knowing they’ll be safe there. 

 

When his new therapist for college asks him what pulled him out of his recent dip, Quentin isn’t sure how to articulate that it was Fillory. That it was a children's book that saved his life. Again and again and again. (He’s not even sure how to Julia how much the books save him, and she’s loved them nearly as much as him for nearly as long.)

 

People begin talking about what they’re going to do after they graduate. How they’re going to use these hard won degrees in the real world. There’s a party in his and Julia’s and James’ apartment and he’s trying to keep his head above water as that dreaded question just keeps getting thrown around. 

 

How is he supposed to  _ know _ what he wants to do next? How do all these people  _ know _ what they want to do next? So he retreats to his room, bottle beer clutched tightly in his hand as he weaves between partiers and slips through his door. Grateful for a moment of mediocre silence and space to breath. Julia knocks once, twenty minutes later, before quickly letting herself in to find Quentin stretched out on his bed, book open in his hands (not Fillory, a Stephn King, because despite what people thing he  _ does  _ read more than just Pluvier) and beer bottle propped against his side. She smiles, asks if he’s okay and pretends to believe his lie of yes just for tonight. 

 

He goes to his grad school interview dressed in his best suit and with Julia squeezing his hand in support before stepping through the door. 

 

(If he thinks about it, really concentrates, Quentin can remember chasing a lose piece of paper down a street, through an alley, over a fence and into. A school? Somewhere too warm for New York in February. There’s someone saying his name and lead him to a large hall and wishing him luck. 

 

He takes some kind of exam. Swears he can see Julia from the corner of his eye. The words on the paper seem to move and nothing about makes any sense. 

 

He can vaguely remember someone asking him if he believes in magic. Can see cards fluttering through the air.

 

Feels a sudden surge of emotion deep in his chest but he can’t place it.) 

 

He gets into grad school, but he can’t remember a single answer he gave at the interview, and when he tells Julia she gets a look in her eyes like she’s confused about something too. They don’t talk about it. Not at first. 

 

Julia comes into his room one day when he knows James is out and sits on his bed. She’s got a look on her face that Quentin can’t place at first, and then he realises it’s worry. It’s the same look she gives him when he forgets to eat two meals in a row, but now it’s not directed at him which makes him even more confused about what’s going on. 

 

She asks what he remembers about his grad school interview and he tells her. There’s a pause before he, hesitantly, slowly and carefully, tells her about his  _ other  _ memories of the day. In turn Julia shows him the sparks she can make from the ends of her fingers and he stares at her in wonder. 

 

Magic, it turns out, is very much real and Quentin in moderately good at it. 

 

It takes them a while to find spells that work, weeding out the fakes on the internet harder than either of them had expected. But they find them, and practice them until it’s second nature to roll and snap fingers to light a cigarette at the end of a long day. Quentin finds a forum full of hedge witches (which is what he and Julia are, they share an excited squeal at having a  _ name _ ) and they trade spells with the more friendly and block the more toxic. 

Joining a hedge group is the obvious next step on their road to magic, so the pair of them stake out local bars that had been mentioned on their helpful forum before. They narrow it down to a place called  _ The Knife Maker  _ and grungy looking building down a back alley that doesn’t seem to have a name but everyone talks about. They meet someone called Marina before they come to a decision and who takes it out of their hands for them. 

 

She scares the shit out of Quentin and worries Julia but who has the spells they want and the resources they need. (Somewhere between creating flames and finding a conven, Julia breaks up with James and Quentin forgets to be excited about the prospect that now’s his chance. Somewhere between starting college and finding magic he’d stopped loving her as more than just his best friend.)

 

They fall out with Marina a year after they join and she casts them out, striking out tattoos as she does. But they had read every book she had anyway, had learnt every spell they could. Julia is a more natural magician, but Quentin makes up for it by applying his skills of hyperfixation on this one thing. 

 

It’s three years after they find out magic is real when Julia gets a job opportunity in Chicago for six months (because they might have real life magic but they still need to pay the bills) that she would be stupid not too take. And Quentin tells her so. Even if it means he’ll be left on his own, for the first time in his whole adult life – which he feels only mildly embarrassed about – and will probably have to find a new roommate before there was no way he’d be able to afford the rent plus bills by himself. But he would worry about that later because for now they had to celebrate her job. 

 

Quentin writes the room advert and lets Julia make changes before they post it online and send it to one newspaper to print. Which Julia insists is just  _ asking  _ for an axe murder to show up for an interview, but Quentin is choosing to ignore that comment. 

 

They interview five different people before Julia has to leave. None of them are the right fit, Julia claims, and as someone who has lived with him for five years and has known him for nearly sixteen years, he can’t argue with that. She knows his living habits better then himself. They don’t find anyone to move in by the time she has to move out, but he promises to not make any decisions without her input first.

 

He’s been living by himself for two weeks when he gets another response to his advert. The man is called Eliot Waugh, twenty-five, very tidy, has several references, can move in straight away and put he’s an excellent cook in his extra information. Quentin forwards it to Julia, who replies twenty minutes later after having stalking him on facebook (something Quentin would have never thought to do) and even looking up some of his references and tells him he should give the mystery man a call.

 

The phone rings four times before a soft voice answers, and it’s not the kind of voice Quentin was picturing when he thought about this faceless man called Eliot, maybe he should have facebook’d him too before making this call. At least so he’d have a face to put to the voice that was speaking again and Quentin startles, having forgotten he was supposed to respond when someone answered the phone. He clears his throat. 

“Um. Hi. I – I this is Quentin. Coldwater. Quentin. You responded to my room advert. This is Eliot. Right?”

 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, what sounds like sheets of paper moving and someone getting up from a squeaky chair and then the voice is back. 

 

“Oh. Hello Quentin Coldwater, this is Eliot. I have to say, I didn’t expect a response so soon.”

 

Shit, was he supposed to have waited longer? Quentin didn’t know how this was supposed to work.

 

“Well I need a roommate. Kind of desperately. Bills to pay and all that.”

 

He tries for a joke and hears a soft huffing sound on the other end of the line that he’ll take as a laugh so pushes on, not giving Eliot a chance to respond. 

 

“And you said you could move in straight away and I just – well you meet all the requirements so if you want the room it’s yours.” 

 

There’s another pause. 

 

“You don’t want to, I don’t know, meet me before you invite me to live in your spare room? Ask any other questions? I could be a murderer for all you know.”

 

Quentin hasn’t met this man yet, but he’s pretty sure that’s a tone of disbelief in his voice mixing with something like humor. And sure, he made a fair point, but Quentin  _ was  _ desperate, he could afford maybe two more weeks of rent alone and then he’s be screwed. He shrugged, then remembered he was on the phone and blushed. 

 

“As long as you pay your half of the rent I won’t turn you into the police for any murders I suspect you’re committing.”

 

“Well, who can turn down an offer like that. When can I move my stuff in?”

 

They talk for a few more minutes, discussing the technical details that come with moving a person into a flat and decide Saturday morning works best for them both and Quentin says he’ll meeting Eliot out front of the building at 10am sharp. 

 

Quentin spends the rest of the week tidying and worrying and calling Julia to ask if there’s a spell that will reveal if someone is a serial killer. 


	2. one

**quentin**

Quentin makes his way down to the front of the apartment building fifteen minutes before he’s due to meet Eliot for the first time and help him move his stuff in. If he stops and thinks about that for too long he starts to get nervous and has to count his breaths and steady his thoughts. This was fine. Everything was going to be fine. 

 

So he sits on the steps that lead up to the front door, trying to look casual as he types out a text to Julia and stop his eyes from darting up everytime he hears someone approaching. He still wasn’t sure what Eliot looked like (he kept going to open facebook and type in his name but would get distracted by a buzzfeed article or a cat video before he even made it to the search bar) so he was very much just guessing about who he was waiting for. 

 

At exactly 10am a taxi pulls up, there’s muffled voices from the slightly lowered window and Quentin cranes his neck to try and see who’s in the car. It would make logical sense for Eliot to come in a taxi right, if he had luggage to bring. The car door opens and Quentin can feel himself drawing in a breath of anticipation, eyes locked straight ahead. 

 

(Oh god, what if they didn’t get along? What if he didn’t like Quentin, found him too hard to live with? Quentin knew he could be of a particular taste sometimes, but he really needed a roommate. What if he  _ was  _ some kind of serial killer?)

 

Someone drops a bag at his feet with a soft thud, but it’s enough to make him jump from his place on the stone steps, heart thundering in his chest as he looks up at the stranger. 

 

The man is far more handsome than any man has the right to be, is Quentin's first thought. Strong jaw and slightly pointed nose, dip in his chin, one eyebrow is arching upwards as he looks at him with green-brown eyes that, honest to god seem to  _ sparkle  _ and perfectly styled hair, a single curl falling expertly across his forehead. His lips tick up in a crooked smile and he says something. Quentin can see his lips moving, but his own mind is suddenly finding it very hard to register the words. 

 

“I —” he starts, stands up from his makeshift seat with a small frown. “Sorry. What– what did you say?” 

 

“You  _ are _ Quentin Coldwater, right?” The stranger frowns a little (and even that looks good on his face, pulls his lips into a small pout and furrows his brows and Quentin has to really concentrate on pulling his attention away from the mans face now), as he says his name slowly, carefully, pronouncing each syllable with care. 

 

For a moment, Quentin wonders just how weird a request it would be to ask him to say his name again, in just that way,  _ Que-en-tin _ . So he pulls his eyes away from the mans face, maybe taking in the rest of his body will be a distraction enough to get his thoughts in gear. 

 

But looking at his clothes isn’t any better. He suddenly feels very underdressed for a first meeting, or maybe the other is just over dressed? The man - it’s Eliot, it must be - is still looking at him, waiting for a response with an amused look in his eyes and Quentin refocuses his thoughts ( _ again _ ) on the situation at hand.

 

“Yes, I - hi. You’re um you’re Eliot. Hi,” he starts to raise his hand, but pauses halfway. Was a handshake too formal for a new roommate? Quentin was saved from having to think on it further by Eliot reaching for his half fallen hand and giving it a short, firm shake, a smile on his face. Quentin felt his cheeks burn slightly. 

 

“So are you going to invite me in or…” Eliot trailed off, raising an eyebrow at him and Quentin has to blink at him before remembering why he’s stood outside his apartment and talking to this person in the first place. 

 

“Shit, yeah sorry. I um yeah, here let me help you with that, we’re on the second floor, the elevator’s broken sorry.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologising, it’s not like he broke the elevator, but now's not the time to evaluate that. So he bends down to pick up the duffle bag that Eliot had dropped at his feet, slinging the strap across his shoulder as he pulls his keys out of his hoodie pocket. Eliot only has two other suitcases in his hands, and Quentin frowns. 

 

“Is this all your stuff?” The question leaves his lips before he can stop himself, two steps away from the front door. But Eliot lets out a soft laugh, and Qunetin can see him shaking his head from his peripheral as he unlocks the first door. 

 

“Unfortunately no. I’ve never been a light packer. The rest of my stuff is in a storage locker three blocks away. I foresee many trips in my future,” he says it with a dramatic sigh that makes Quentin smile. 

 

“After you,” he holds the door open for Eliot and the smile that he gets in return is hard to place, but Quentin doesn’t think it’s all gratitude, if he didn’t know any better it would have felt like he was missing out on a joke. 

 

As Quentin steps through the door he turns back, just to check it clicks back into place and finally gets to see the person stepping out of the taxi. It’s a blonde woman, pushing glasses up her nose and sparing a single glance up at his building before walking away. 

 

°º˚☆

 

It takes Eliot another four trips before he has nearly all his belongings in the small apartment.  _ Nearly _ , being the key word here. Quentin stands outside the apartment, Eliot stands in the doorway, and between them stands a high back soft leather chair which won’t quite fit through the doorway. 

 

“Maybe if we um try turning it more to the left?” Quentin suggests, tilting his head to the side as if he can see the measurements for the door compared to the chair. He doesn’t even want to ask where Eliot plans on putting the thing once they get it in. 

 

“Can’t hurt to try,” Eliot says but he doesn’t look convinced and honestly, Quentin can’t blame him. Eliot pulls, Quentin pushes, they tilt it at the same time, the chair gets stuck half through the door, one leg sticking out.

 

“Shit.” He pushes some hair behind his ear, bites his lip and wonders how the fuck he’d ended up in this situation. Blaming Julia feels like the way to go. Maybe if he could get Eliot to step out of the way for a second he could think of some spell that might help, but getting the taller man to leave didn’t seem to be possible. He was very focused on his chair. 

 

“Do you really need the chair?” Quentin ventures, carefully extracting his fingers from where they’re nearly being crushed against the wall. 

 

“Yes!” The look Eliot shoots his way seems far too serious for a chair. “It’s my  _ thinking  _ chair, Quentin. Where else am I meant to think?”

 

And well. Quentin really doesn’t have a response for that. 

 

It takes them another twenty minutes of awkwardly tilting the chair and pushing it millimeters at a time but eventually they get the chair through the doorway, sliding it across the laminate floor and they both let out small sighs of joy. They share a smile, small and hesitant at first, as they both remember they only met four hours ago, and then Eliot is smiling wide and falling  _ gracefully  _ into his chair and looking around the room. Inspecting his new place of residence, Quentin supposes. 

 

“So,” Eliot starts, his head resting on the back of the chair and Quentin feels compelled to move from where he’s stood against the now closed door and stand in front of the other man. He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, feeling self conscious as he watches Eliot’s eyes look him over. “I think we deserve a drink after that terrible ordeal, don’t you?” 

 

He doesn’t wait for Quentin to answer, just gets up from his chair, touching Quentin on the shoulder lightly as he passes him to get to the kitchen. Quentin can hear him moving around, opening cupboard and sorting through the fridge, the tell tale sound of a knife cutting through cello-tape peaks his curiosity enough to turn around and actually follow him into the kitchen. Eliot is already pulling out glasses – much fancier then the ones he and Julia picked up from Target for $10 – and fitting them in the cupboards, leaving two on the counter top. 

 

Quentin takes the moment of. Calm? Stillness? Them both just being stood in the same room for a moment? To look watch Eliot properly. The way he moves around the kitchen as if he’s always lived there. The sure way he holds four cups in one hand (Quentin point blank refuses to look too long at the other man's hands, because he knows, knows,  _ knows _ he be fucked), and opens a cupboard with the other. He’s letting out little sighs and shaking his head at the pitiful emptiness of Quentins fridge and the clear lack of anything other than cheap vodka and half flat coke. 

 

“I think there’s some gin in that bottom cupboard, behind the um soup I think,” Quentin says with a point to Eliot’s left and he laughs at the face Eliot is pulling as he turns back to him, holding the half empty bottle of Gordon’s Gin at arm's length. His lips are pulled back in disgust, shaking his head at Quentin as if he has committed some awful crime. 

 

“No, absolutely not. Nope. This is – cheap vodka can be excused Quentin, but I draw the line at  _ this _ .” Eliot drops the bottle on the counter next to his arm, pushing it with his index finger closer to Quentin, who is really struggling to contain his laughter now. 

 

“Hey, I like it. Leave my gin alone,” he pouts a little, bringing the bottle closer to his chest and resting his chin on top of the lid. 

 

“There is a layer of dust on that bottle that proves you haven’t touched it in months.” Eliot counters, pouring a generous amount of vodka into each glass and cringing as he opens the old coke as if it physically pains him. “If this is going to work, we’re going to have to go alcohol shopping immediately.” 

 

A glass is pushed towards him, Quentin takes a sip, coughing at the burn of the alcohol and stutters out, 

 

“Don’t you mean food shopping?” 

 

Eliot shrugs one shoulder, squinting across the room at all his unpacked boxes, sipping from his own drink without any obvious reaction. 

 

“That too, I suppose.”

 

°º˚☆

 

After the first few days, they fall into a rough routine. Or Eliot seems to learn his routine enough to know when to avoid drinking the last of the coffee or spend too long in the bathroom on mornings when he was running late. And for his part, Quentin learnt that Eliot liked to watch terrible reality tv shows at 6pm each night with a large glass of something alcoholic and that personal space wasn’t something he fully believed in. 

 

It’s a week later when Eliot has finally unpacked all his things and scattered them around his room and the rest of the apartment as if they had always been there. There’s none of the awkward tension that Quentin had been expecting about living with a complete stranger. 

 

And he supposes it probably has something to do with the fact that Eliot doesn’t seem to believe in  _ awkward _ , by passes the stage completely and lands directly in  _ companionable  _ (Quentin wanted to say friends, but knew they weren’t there quite yet, but he was looking forward to finding out what being friends with Eliot was like. If being just a roommate was like this). 

 

“Quentin!” Was the first thing he heard after walking through the door, bag always falling from his shoulder after a long day of work. “You have to try this!” 

 

He follows the voice into the kitchen, eyebrows raising as he takes in the assortment of bottles – both alcoholic and non – covering the counter top and the professional looking mixing equipment. 

 

“Um,” is as far as he gets. 

 

“It took me far too long to find these things, I really should have labeled those boxes. But never mind that. Here,” and then Eliot is holding a drink out to him which he accepts without a second thought. 

 

Quentin takes a sip and he can’t stop himself from letting out an appreciative humming sound from the back of his throat. It was sweet, just a slight hint of something sour with the aftertaste. He took another sip. 

 

“This is really good,” Quentin nodded his head, raising the tall glass as if he could see what was in it. “What is it?”

 

“A Bramble. Oh the things dear Bradsell knew what to do with a blackberry,” Eliot grinned at him, sipping from his own drink. Quentin didn’t know who Bradsell was, but if they had anything to with this drink then he was inclined to agree. 

 

°º˚☆

 

Three weeks into living with Eliot it occurred to him that he had no idea what the other man did as a job. He was sure he’d seen him leave the apartment some mornings when he had a late shift at the bookstore, but there were some days he also didn’t see him leaves his room until the middle of the afternoon. 

 

Where Quentin had a routine, Eliot lived on a whim. 

 

He was reheating some leftover Thai food for lunch on his day off (he had brief considered going out, but just the idea seemed tiring and netflix was calling his name) when Eliot came into the kitchen, dressed as he normally did – another reason Quentin was finding it hard to guess at what he  _ did _ – pressed slacks, burgundy button up, vest hanging open as he expertly tied a black tie. 

 

“Coffee?”

 

Quentin gestured with his fork to the machine, still humming quietly after he’d just made his own. There were twenty-three seconds left on the microwave, and he decided, if Eliot was still in the kitchen when it got down to zero he’d finally ask him. 

 

Twenty seconds. Eliot was peering in the milk carton as the coffee machine whired in the background. 

 

Fifteen seconds. The machine let out a puff of steam, sighing to signal it was finished. 

 

Nine seconds. Milk was being poured into the mug. 

 

Three seconds. Quentin watched as a spoon was moved around quickly one through the bronze liquid. 

 

The microwave beeped. Quentin carefully pulled his plate out, hissing as he burnt his fingers a little on the crematic. And. Eliot was still in the kitchen. Leaning one hip on the counter next to Quentin and blowing on his coffee. 

 

“What do you do for work?” He blurted out before his brain could catch up with his mouth and put it a better way. Quentin blushed as Eliot now looked down at him with a quirked eyebrow. 

 

“I’m currently a...researcher. For someone writing a book. There missing some information, I’m helping find it.” He said it easily, with a slight lift of one shoulder.

 

“Oh.” That. That hadn’t been the answer Quentin was expecting. 

 

“I know. I don’t look the type,” Eliot sighed, sipping from his mug with a teasing look, as if he could read Quentins mind. “But it pays well and you have to make money somehow, hm?” 

 

He didn’t get the chance to reply before Eliot was pushing away from the counter, drinking the reminder of his coffee far quicker then should have been possible for the hot liquid and was patting Quentin on the shoulder as he left. 

 

“Which is where I better be going now. See you for dinner?” 

 

He always asked it like he meant something other then the two of them sitting down to eat whatever meal they had concocted for themselves. Though Quentin wasn’t sure what double entendre there could be about eating. So he just gave him what he hoped was an easy smile but was pretty sure looked pained. 

 

“Sure. See you later.” 

 

Eliot smiled at him again and Quentin felt his heart beat a little faster and his blush creeping back up his neck. The last thing he needed was to get a stupid crush on his new roommate. Quentin really didn’t want to fall into that cliche trope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not entirely sure why i keep writing such long chapters, but i guess we'll see how long i keep it up for. they've gotta get all buddy buddy before they find out their meant to be mortal/immortal enemies y'know, it's much more fun that way. i swear i know what im doing.
> 
> anyway!!  
> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are appreciated!! mwah xox


	3. two

**eliot**

Some people (Margo) would say Eliot was impulsive. Eliot, of course, would vehemently disagree with such a statement.

 

He wasn’t _impulsive_ he just. Didn't fully think things through before doing said thing. 

 

There was a difference. 

 

Which was how he had ended up with a roommate. Eliot hasn’t had a ( **proper** ) roommate in fifty years, and the last person he had lived with had listed, in _detail_ , all his many, _many_ flaws (much to his dear friends amusement). Sure, he and Margo had lived together on and off for the last few decades. But Margo was almost as bad as him, so did it really count? 

 

He didn’t _need_ a roommate, was Margo’s argument. He was perfectly capable of living alone in a very stylish loft on the upper east side if he so wished. 

 

But Eliot knew himself well enough to know that he needed someone around to keep him on his toes, so to speak. 

 

He needed someone around so he wouldn’t lounge around in his finest silks with his favourite cocktail in hand catching up on three years worth of _The Real Housewives of …_ If he wasn’t already the self-proclaimed King of Parties, he would have given himself the title of King of Procrastination. 

 

It was bound to happen after all, when you literally had eternity to complete a task. He really did work best to a deadline. 

 

So a roommate was needed.

 

A human roommate who would most definitely ask what he did for work and question why he never seemed to leave the apartment during regular hours. But not someone who was going to pry too much into his life. 

 

It was a delicate balance to find. 

 

So he had lucked out with Quentin Coldwater. 

 

He was cute, in an awkward nerdy kind of way. Long hair that he clearly used to hide behind when the world got too much (which seemed to be often), stumbled over his words as if he couldn’t get them out fast enough (it made having a conversation a little stilted, but Eliot didn’t mind) and always seemed to be moving his hands in strange ways (a way to release anxious energy, he assumed).

 

But he didn’t ask too many questions and let Eliot rearrange his furniture and after the first week was even willing to try all the different drinks he made. 

 

It was a win-win as far as Eliot was concered. 

 

°º˚☆

 

Eliot sighed, turning the page of yet another historical text that wasn’t telling him any new information. Just repeating the same facts in different orders and phrasing.

 

He hadn’t, technically, lied when he’d told Quentin he was a researcher, because he _was_ doing research. 

 

It just wasn’t going very well. 

 

Or going anywhere. 

 

The whole reason Eliot had come back to New York was because he had exhausted all their leads in Europe and Margo had been told by some suspiciously helpful man in a catacomb that a bunch of old books had been sent to New York sometime in the late 18th century and some sent to Thailand (they were still unsure on the _why_ ).

 

Unfortunately, the man hadn’t been helpful enough to say whereabouts they were in the respective counties. 

 

So here he was. Combing through books in various different libraries. While Margo was sunning herself on a beach somewhere. Probably. (Objectively, Eliot knew she would be doing her share of the work as well, but it was easier to wallow in self pity if he imagined her on a white sand beach.)

 

His eyes skimmed the page. His fingers flipped it to the next one. He took a sip of the terrible coffee he had sweet talked the librarian into giving him from the staff room. 

 

He repeated the same actions again and again until he got to the end of the book. No new information. With one finger he pushed it across the table and rolled his neck before pulling the next book closer. 

 

The worn brown leather of the cover felt soft under his fingers in the way he remembers books from his past feeling, and flips it open with a yet another sigh. When they had first started this little quest Eliot had thought finding a single missing page would be far easier. 

 

But here they are fifteen years later and still combing through fucking libraries across the world. It was enough to make a person hate books. 

 

Half an hour later he gave up for the day, pushing his chair away from the long table he had claimed at the back of the building and picked up his phone, flicking through the missed notifications. A text from Margo, a new alert, four different instagram notifications and. Oh. A text from Quentin. 

 

_I accidentally ordered too much Chinese food so there’s some leftovers in the fridge if you want anything._

_Not even sure if you like Chinese food. But I won’t eat it all so._

_There's some in the fridge._

 

Eliot couldn’t help but smile slightly at the message, he could almost imagine the fretting the floppy haired man had gone through before hitting send. Eliot wasn’t sure he had ever met someone who worried about things so much. (It was strangely endearing, but he wasn’t about to think too hard on _that_.) 

**_of course i like chinese food. thnks_ ** 

He locked his phone with a smile, slipping it into his pocket and started to make his way out of the library. 

 

°º˚☆

 

They started texting after that. Which was strange, because it really _wasn’t_ that strange at all. Eliot had come back to New York with one goal, combing through libraries, he hadn’t meant to start making _friends_. But he was also pretty sure that’s what he and Quentin were becoming. It was such an easy friendship, as if they had been friends all their lives and not met only a few weeks ago.

 

_If i get a fern will you help me water it?_

 

**_your plant, your responsiblity_ **

 

_What about a cheese plant tree?_

 

**_still no_ **

**_if u start talking about a fish next i'm moving out_ **

 

_Omg if i got a fish would you remind me to feed it?_

 

**_no._ **

**_do you like whiskey?_ **

 

_I guess?_

_I just took a fuzzbeat quiz that told me I’d kill the cheese plant so guess that’s a no_

 

**_good, i need you to try this new drink tonight i just made_ **

**_good job ur not getting one then, plant murderer_ **

 

_I’ve not murdered anything yet!_

 

Eliot grinned at his phone before putting it down on the counter top and turning his attention back to the half chopped onion on cutting board. _Technically,_ he didn’t need to eat, he didn’t even really need to drink blood (despite what many of the myths said) to survive, but not eating was weird and sometimes he just woke up craving blood. But getting blood was a much messier business than cooking and Eliot wasn’t in the mood for cleaning up a mess or finding the local Hub, so risotto it was. 

 

By the time he heard a key turning in the lock twenty minutes later he was carefully spooning out the rice dish onto a plate and cracking black pepper over the top. 

 

“Wow something smells nice,” Quentin’s reached him before the man himself and Eliot rolled his eyes with a smirk. 

 

“There’s some left in the pan if you want some,” he said his nodding his head to the left as he picked up his fork. 

 

“Oh. No, no I didn’t, I mean I don’t want – it’s yours.” He stumbled over his words, shaking his head as he let his messenger bag fall to the floor on the other side of the island. Eliot had gotten used to Quentin’s rambling ways over the last few weeks and after numerous teasing and testing had found he got worse the more nervous he was. Eliot had filed that information away for a later date.

 

“Please. There’s plenty. Rice is like pasta, always hard to ration,” Eliot didn’t wait for a response and just pushed his own plate across the counter towards Quentin and turned to get a new one for himself. Quentin hesitated for another second before apparently giving in and grabbing himself a fork. Eliot turned around just as Quentin let out low humming sound, his head nodding as he piled rice atop a speared piece of chicken. “Good?”

 

“Oh my god Eliot, this is amazing. I didn’t know you could cook.”

 

Eliot tried not look too disgruntled at the comment as he took his own first bite. 

 

“Well, I _did_ say I was an excellent cook on my application. Did you not read it?” 

 

“No I did. I just thought it was y’know a um a lie,” Quentin shrugged one shoulder, but there was a small smile on his lips too. 

 

“My dear Quentin, you thought I was lying and yet still asked me to move in?” Eliot couldn’t stop his lips from tugging up, teeth showing as he leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. Oh, the shade of red he was turning was delightful. He wanted to see how bright he could go.

 

“I was getting desperate! And you sounded the least murdery of everyone,” he was pointing his fork at him now, cheeks red and he pushed his hair behind his ear before pulling it back, as if unsure if he wanted to hide or not. Eliot wasn't sure how someone could be so cute.

 

And Eliot just kept grinning. The knowledge that he had probably killed more people than anyone else who had applied all the more amusing in this context. 

 

“Mhm,” was all he replied, letting his eyes pick a route down the younger mans face, eyes and cheekbones and nose and lips and dimple and the collarbone just showing at the top of his t-shirt before ending on his own plate. He could hear the hitch in Quentin’s breathing and bit down on the corner of his mouth to stop his smile. 

 

“So um, according to this quiz I took I could totally keep something called a Calathea alive,” Quentin spoke around a mouthful of food, and Eliot, who knew a topic change when he heard one, let him have it. 

 

“Uh huh, still not agreeing to a house plant. Or a fish."

 

°º˚☆

 

A month and two weeks after Eliot first moved in he found himself sitting on the slightly lumpy sofa next to Quentin and watching _Dirty Dancing,_ a bottle of wine already drank between them and a second one half empty on the table. Quentin sat with his legs crossed under him, head leaning on the back of the sofa as Eliot stretches his legs out on the coffee table next to him, a comfortable distance between them. (Though he wouldn’t have minded if there was less, but he was ignoring those thoughts for now.)

“I can’t believe you know this how film by heart.”

 

“Oh! This is my favourite scene,” Eliot exclaimed pointedly ignoring Quentin’s comment, pushing himself up slightly in his seat as Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey start tapping out the beat with the palms of their hands on their chests. Quentin rolls his head to look at him, eyebrows rising but a smile on his lips too.

 

Everyone always talked about the finale dance, which sure, Eliot liked it was the bit climactic scene that they'd been building and hinting towards. But this one was his favourite. He liked to see all the little mistakes, watch as Baby went from girl to woman, from converse to heels, he liked to get excited when she finally gets the spin right and not to mention the song. The year _Dirty Dancing_ came out had been one of his favourites. 

 

“Do you know the dance?” Quentin was teasing him, he knew, but day he and Margo had finally perfected all the steps had been excited. They’d celebrated with a case of champagne and an extravagant party. 

 

“Why? Want me to teach you it?” He teased back, tearing his eyes away from the screen to look at the man next to him, big brown eyes already staring at him with their damn earnest light. Quentin grinned at him, a giddy glint (probably brought on by the wine) filling his eyes. 

 

“Yes.” Quentin drew the word out. 

 

Eliot blinked at him, eyes searching his face before he grinned too and finished the last of the wine in his glass in a single gulp before putting it down. 

 

“Okay then, come on.” He stood up, undoing the three buttons on his vest and shrugging out of it then holding his hand out for Quentin impatiently. He just looked at him, eyes wide. Eliot wiggled his fingers. “Take my hand Quentin.” 

 

Quentin sighed in an over dramatic fashion (that Eliot was 90% certain he had picked up from him), but grabbed his hand and let himself be pulled up to a standing position with a smile on his lips. Eliot smiled back, pulled him from round the sofa to where there was a little more room and started moving their arms to the correct positions. It was like molding clay, Quentin’s arms went easily wherever he put them, his eyes following every movement. 

 

“My friends call me Q. You can um as well. Because we’re y’know, friends.” Quentin mumbled, eyes concentrated on Eliot's fingers. 

 

“Remember, lock your frame. No spaghetti arms. Q,” Eliot said, tapping his fingers on Quentin’s elbow and holding back a wide smile, before resting right hand on his back and clasping Quentin’s right with his left. A huff of laughter brought his eyes down to Quentin’s face, who was looking at him expectantly. 

 

“Two steps back, two steps forward. Just follow me, okay. Ready?” He didn’t wait for the confirmation, just moved his feet forward, pushing Quentin with him and pulling him back two beats later. To his credit, Quentin only stumbled a little, counting under his breath and stumbling again. 

 

Eliot sped up the movements slightly and decided to see what kind of reaction he would get if he added a spin. The soft gasp Quentin let out was reward enough, and Eliot steadied him with his hand resting back on his back was he wobbled. 

 

There was less space between their bodies after the spin, each of them invading the others dance space, but Quentin didn’t seem to mind so Eliot wasn’t about to break the moment with a quote. They stepped forward again, backwards, Quentin stood on his foot, the last notes of _Hungry Eyes_ faded out on the screen. 

 

“I –” Quentin opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the loud ringing from Eliot’s back pocket. He winced, extracting his fingers from Quentin’s hand with an apologetic smile. 

 

“Sorry, just let me,” he pulled his phone out of his pocket, full intending on sending whoever it was to voicemail. Margo’s face started up at him from the screen and he turned to wince at Quentin. “Sorry. I have to take this. I’ll just be a second?” He bit his lip as he watched Quentin nod, giving him an understanding smile. 

 

“No worries. I’ll um pause the film?” It didn’t take a genius to understand the unasked question. 

 

“Please.” Eliot waited long enough to see Quentin nod again, a softer smile gracing his face before answering his phone. 

 

“Bambi, isn’t it 3am for you?” He asked lightly, walking down the small hallway to his room and shutting the door just in time for her reply. 

 

“The time isn’t important right now. I think I found it.” He’s so happy to hear her voice that for moment he doesn’t fully understand what she’s saying to him. 

 

“Found… You found what?” He asked, voice quiet, heart thudding uselessly in his chest. 

 

“The page, what else would I be talking about,” her voice sounded annoyed in that way she got whenever he was being oblivious. But Eliot knew what she was talking about, he just needed her to say it out loud. At least she didn’t sound overly worried about whatever the page said. That had to be a positive. Right?

 

“Shit.” He hadn’t thought it was real, if he was being honest. Had started to doubt the existence of the entire thing around ten years ago and he knew Margo had had her doubts too. 

 

“Yeah.” They were both silent, he could hear the sounds of doors closing from Margos end of the line and the unmistakable _click-clack_ of her heels on wooden floor. “I’m getting on a flight tomorrow to New York. I’ll be there by Friday afternoon.” 

 

“Okay. Send me your flight details. I’ll pick you up at the airport.” Plans. He was good at plans, Margo was better, they were amazing at them together. So they’d reunite and plan the next step to their quest. 

 

“Will your cute roommate be okay with me staying for a few days?” Margo asked, voice momentarily muffled before coming back in clear. 

 

“I – yeah, he’ll be fine with it. I’ll handle my cute roommate, I’ll see you Friday.” There was another door opening on her end of the line and then a voice shouting, and Margo shouting back in a language he didn’t understand. 

 

“Okay. I gotta go, El. I’ll see you soon.” 

 

She hung up before he could say anything else and Eliot leaned against his door and let out a deep breath. His excitement over seeing Margo again mixed with his trepidation over what exactly the missing page was going to reveal. He let the excitement take a stronger hold then worry. He had missed his Bambi in a way he didn’t know how to explain. It was like missing a limb. 

  
And now she was coming back. He let his excitement over _that_ win out over his worry about telling Quentin they’d be having a guest. Oh she was going to eat him alive. He couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hi sorry for taking so long to update i spent ages trying to decide what exactly was meant to be going on. i'm still not really sure if i like it but anyway, it's here. it's done. 
> 
> i actually did take a buzzfeed quiz that told me i could kill a cheese plant and honestly it strikes me as a real q thing to do as well. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are appreciated!! mwah xox  
> you can also find me on [tumblr](https://rhystarlight.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> omg hi so if you've made it this far thank you so much i promise they'll actually like. interact in person in the next chapter. sorry this one was so long and rambly i have no self control. i've never done magicians fic before so you'll have to like, bare with me a little as i try to figure just how to write in from eliots pov so if he's a little off i'm so sorry. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are appreciated!! mwah xox


End file.
